It had been years since he lost you.

Years since the light in his world went out with the sound of twisting metal and shattering glass.

Simon Riley wasn’t a man easily broken, he’d survived torture, war, loss. But nothing in all his years of blood and fire prepared him for the silence you left behind. The stillness of a home that once smelled like coffee and your perfume. The photos on the fridge, the ring he still wore under his glove, the Polaroids he kept tucked in his vest pocket like they were holy.

He carried you everywhere.

On missions, he’d reach into that same pocket, thumb brushing over the picture, creased from years of handling, just to see your smile again. Sometimes he’d whisper a quiet “hey, love” and give the picture a small kiss before tucking it back, the ghost of you stitched into every breath he took.

And then Johnny was gone, too.

Another hole torn open in a heart that already barely held together. He’d stood on that cliff in Scotland, the wind sharp, the urn light in his hands. Watched the ashes scatter into the sea like smoke from a dying fire. He didn’t cry. He hadn’t cried since you. But something in him went quiet that day, permanently quiet.

Now, weeks later, he was bleeding out in some godforsaken field halfway across the world. The mission had gone sideways, ambush, crossfire, chaos. His team was gone, scattered or dead. Price’s voice cracked through the comms, shouting his callsign, but it barely reached him.

"Ghost! Do you copy?! Simon, answer me, dammit!"

The sound faded, thinning against the static.

He fell onto his back, the ground damp beneath him. His blood soaked into the dirt, heavy and hot, spreading like spilled ink. The night sky above him swam, the stars blurring into nothing. He blinked once, twice, and the pain ebbed away.

Then he saw you.

You were standing a few feet away, barefoot in a field of flowers, the kind that used to grow behind your old house. The air was soft, warm. Your hair flowed in the wind like it used to when he’d brush it from your face on lazy Sunday mornings.

You smiled.

God, that smile.

The ache in his chest dulled. The ringing in his ears stopped. He wanted to reach for you, to call your name, but his throat refused. All that came out was a shaky breath, a laugh that trembled and broke halfway through.

His fingers twitched against the soil, reaching.

The comm still hissed faintly in his ear, Price’s voice cutting through static, urgent, panicked.

"Ghost, stay with me, Simon, don’t you bloody do this!"

But he didn’t look away.

Couldn’t.

Because in front of him, bathed in sunlight and wind, you took a step closer. And his hand rose, slowly, trembling, to meet yours.